


There's Rue for You

by OchibaKonpeki



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bottom Peter Parker, Communication, Dom/sub, Iron Man Suit Kink, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Top Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26682460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OchibaKonpeki/pseuds/OchibaKonpeki
Summary: Tony took an aborted half-step forward, fingers twitching to touch the place where the Iron Man glove was beginning to cut off circulation to the kid’s hands. He barely stopped himself, and for a long, long moment, Tony stared at the top of the kid’s head as the kid stared at his own sock-clad feet, toes pointed to hold himself up. “Is this, uh,” he paused in the deafening silence, “Is this a sex thing, kid?”
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 257





	1. There's fennel for you, and columbines

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the paragraph that became the summary in January of this year and have had the first two chapters written for months. Happy to have finally finished!

Peter was antsy, nearly shaking, holding the little USB in his fist, clenched deep in his pocket, as he surveyed the array of Iron Man suits set up like tin soldiers in a semicircle around him, lit up in the darkness of midnight in Stark Tower. “You can do this, Parker,” he whispered to himself; even that seemed loud in the deep silence of the night. “Everyone is asleep.” 

Excitement thrummed in him, turning every single sense up even further, to the point he was sure he could smell and hear the exact shade of deep, deep Iron Man red of the Mark VII, the one Mr. Stark had been wearing when the aliens had attacked New York, the one that Peter had been thinking of when he chose red for his own suit years later. The suit that had been his childhood hero.

There was a port under the breastplate. Not USB—obviously, all of Mr. Stark’s personal stuff had a unique, modified micro USB port because “that’s anti-hacker 101, kid”—but Peter had a home-rigged adapter, born of channeling his sexual frustrations into an illusion of productivity as he created the objects that could allow him to, hypothetically, fulfill his fantasies. The result was this. Peter, in his sock feet and PJs on one of his many sleepovers in the tower, hard as a rock with his hand wrapped around the hypothetical USB stick with the hypothetical program ready to run and the hypothetical adapter with a distinctly non-hypothetical erection straining the front of his pants. 

His hands were shaking where he held his fingers millimeters from the surface of the breastplate. He could feel its coolness across the distance; a coolness reflected in the expressionless slit-eyes of the mask. Then the distance closed. He applied pressure, then released it, feeling the breast plate slide away with the release, tucking itself neatly under the suit’s arm.

There was the port. Looking at it felt oddly intimate, secret, like it wasn’t ever meant for his eyes. Inserting the USB felt almost like a violation. But as the breastplate slid back into place and the tin soldier relaxed into a human-like posture, head tilting down to look at Peter, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. His eyes were only for the figure that raised a metal gauntlet and closed its cool fingers around his wrist, the grip unbreakable against the human aspect of his strength. The other gauntlet fell on his waist, turned him, and he was ushered into the little nook that the suit had occupied. 

As the second gauntlet swept up his side to grip his other wrist and join it to the first, a sensation ran through his body like the snapping of some taught string that had been holding him together. He exhaled harshly through his nose, shutting his eyes and sagging against the hold. The suit slowly, gently slid his wrists up the wall until his toes barely brushed the ground when he pointed them; when he managed to breathe, his inhale sounded like a squeak. 

Dangling, helpless, something within him slotted into place and peace overtook him. Peter meditated on it, melted into it until his arousal, his calm became less something he was experiencing and more a permanence of self. He dangled for a long moment, long enough that anxiety finally worked its way through his pleasure to remind him that he was, in fact, discoverable, vulnerable, and certainly abusing the privilege of his mentor’s trust. 

“Disengage,” he managed to choke out. 

Mr. Stark’s voice answered him, momentarily sending a wave of shock through him so powerful that his arousal and peace left him entirely. But in the next instance he realized it was AI, or at the least, prerecorded, because all it said was, “Foreign programming style detected. All further commands must be approved by the boss—me, obviously. Stand by.”

_Fuck._

...

“You’re doing very well, sir,” Friday chirped warmly, startling Tony out of his thoughts. “You haven’t even asked what Peter is doing once.”

“Wasn’t thinking about it,” Tony admitted readily, snatching a different wrench up from the workbench. “Am now, though. Maybe I should check on him. Parental concern, you know.”

Friday made a sound like clucking a tongue, and Tony revisited the image he had of her in his head: a mousy barkeep in rural Scotland, with her red hair pulled back into a bun and the motherly air of an old maid, despite being only twenty-two or so. A born fusser. They’d been discussing for a few weeks now finding a balance between Tony’s mentorship/parental role towards Peter and his intense, highly inappropriate crush, all the more pressing with Peter’s odd behavior of late. “I would hardly call Operation: Impulse Control a resounding success, sir.”

Tony hummed, returning his attention to Dum-E’s aging hinges once more. The squeaking had become unbearable; perhaps replacement parts were on the horizon. “Really? I would. Haven’t bent him over a work table yet, have I?”

“Technically, sir—”

Tony waved her off. “I was teaching the kid to play pool, Fri, no big deal. You didn’t have to set off the security alarm.”

“Peter’s face was bright red and his vitals were elevated, sir, I’m sure he was quite uncomfortable.” The tone was distinctly chiding and for a moment, Tony recalled fondly Jarvis’s exhausted exasperation in the face of similarly destructive behaviors. “Regardless, I’ve also cancelled your orders for _several_ expensive gifts and needed to message Happy with instructions to make an urgent phone call to you when you’ve created too intimate an atmosphere with your _protégé._ ” 

Tony paused. “So you’re the reason his birthday presents never arrived.”

“Yes, I am the reason Peter did not receive a Tesla Model X or a Tibetan Mastiff puppy in addition to the suit upgrade that integrated with a matching set of the one-of-a-kind custom StarkPhone and the laptop you designed and built by hand.”

Tony gestured threateningly towards the ceiling with the wrench in his left hand. “That was embarrassing, F.R.I.D.A.Y. I had to take him out to dinner instead, I didn’t even have a reservation—”

“He loved that,” she interrupted him, snippy. Why did he program her to be allowed to be snippy? “He felt special. As though you were taking a real interest in his education—”

“I _do_ take a real interest in his education! I just also—”

“Take an interest in his body, sir?”

“Mute.”

“You disabled that function, sir.”

Tony huffed, snatching up an oil canister and pointing the nozzle into the offending joint. “Doesn’t sound like me. Anyway, what’s the kid up to? He asleep?”

“No, he’s... oh.”

The hairs on Tony’s arms stood up and an excess of oil poured into the joint. “Oh?” he prompted, tone falsely light, eyes fixed unseeingly on the place where the oil dripped down Dum-E’s metal arm. 

“He’s in the old lab. Maybe you _should_ check on him. I can’t tell exactly what’s happening.”

Tony didn’t remember standing, but he was suddenly on his feet. “Is he okay?”

“... Yes,” she said after a tense moment, but he was off like a rocket anyway, out the door to his private workshop and hitting the stairs at a run; there were only three flights between himself at the lab where he did the mechanical work on the suits. Just before he reached the door, however, Fri’s voice hissed frantically into his ear—from a speaker in the arm of the reading glasses he’d designed for shop work— “ _Behave yourself._ ”

Tony didn’t pause long enough to parse what that might mean before he threw the door open, eyes searching the room, looking for Peter—but at first he didn’t see him. Nothing was out of place, except one of the suits— ... One of the suits was out of place, its back to the door, and something was behind it in the alcove it normally stood in. 

Peter.

Tony inhaled deeply, relaxing, as he swept towards his protégé, but as he approached, he realized what had made Fri pause and froze in place. The kid was unhurt, yes, but—but. Held up against the wall by his wrists, dangling, his sweet face flushed with obvious pleasure and twisted with shame and guilt. 

Tony took an aborted half-step forward, fingers twitching to touch the place where the Iron Man glove was beginning to cut off circulation to the kid’s hands. He barely stopped himself, and for a long, long moment, Tony stared at the top of the kid’s head as the kid stared at his own sock-clad feet, toes pointed to hold himself up. “Is this, uh,” he paused in the deafening silence, screaming the word _MENTORSHIP_ over and over again in his mind, trying desperately not to look down at Peter’s crotch as he continued as clinically as possible, “Is this a sex thing, kid?”

To his mild surprise—he was quite sure he wouldn’t be capable of proper surprise for another half hour of processing the situation _at least_ , if not an entire nap to settle his thoughts _—_ Peter fixed him with an absolutely _furious_ glare, made ferociously cute by his red cheeks, and snapped, “Mr. Stark, this is _really obviously_ a sex thing. Can you _please_ get me out of it?”

“Oh,” Tony answered eloquently, immobile, eyes flickering down and back up Peter’s form so quickly he actually managed not to see anything. In the periphery of his vision, he could see his Peter squirming and it was _delicious_ , so he cleared his throat and cast around for something, _anything_ even _vaguely_ appropriateto say. “Can you not break out?” This was Spider-Man, after all, someone Tony strongly suspected could beat the Iron Man in a fight on his best day.

Peter huffed, clearly hiding his embarrassment behind irritation. “I _could_ , but I’m almost positive I’d damage the suit in the process, and then—”

“The suit would see you as a threat,” Tony interrupted, causing Peter to nod bitterly in agreement.

“And I’d have to fight it in the middle of your lab. So I had to choose between letting you catch me destroying your expensive equipment—”

“Or being restrained by my suit.” They stared at each other, Peter looking as uncertain as Tony felt (though he was sure he wasn’t showing it). He brought a slow hand up to the back of his head, scrubbing his fingers through the short greying hair there as he struggled to find words he could make come out of his dry mouth. “I’m... not positive you made the right choice, kid,” he tried for a joke, only to feel something shrivel painfully in his chest as Peter flinched, visibly hurt. He grimaced at the kid in apology, and after a long second in which Peter glared balefully at him, his green eyes bright with embarrassment and hurt feelings, he tilted his head a bit, and Tony knew he was, at the very least, conditionally forgiven. 

He stepped forward again, so close that his shoulder brushed that of the suit, cold and silent and unyielding where it held Peter’s hands above his head. “Are you going to run if I let you go?” Tony asked, vaguely aware of how his voice had dropped just slightly on the question. _Be good_ , he begged himself. “Because this clearly needs to be talked about.”

Peter scrunched his eyes shut with a groan and _clunk_ ed his head against the metal wall of the lab. “Or we could. Just. Pretend this never happened. Thoughts?” Tony raised an eyebrow at him, waiting patiently for him to get too anxious to keep his eyes shut. He cracked one beautiful green eye open, huffed at Tony’s expression, and mumbled, “I won’t run away.”

“Promise me.” God, fuck, that was supposed to be a playful question, not a command, _fuck_ , but Tony was frozen in a façade of calm as Peter’s eyelashes fluttered shut and he bit his lip.

The poor kid’s voice cracked. “I-I promise.”

_Fuck_. Tony genuinely had no idea how he kept his voice steady and his eyes on Peter’s face as he spoke to the suit. “Mark VII, disengage.”

His own voice echoed back from the mask, its face turning towards him silently. “Code?”

“ _Daddy’s home,_ ” he answered smoothly, ignoring the sharp turn of Peter’s head and his incredulous gaze as the suit nodded once in confirmation. It released Peter’s wrists and stepped back in one fluid motion, standing at attention as the soles of Peter’s feet hit the ground and the kid slid down into a squatting position against the wall, crossing his arms over his knees and resting his forehead against them. 

“I could still run,” the kid said, tone edging on conversational but for the manic crack in his voice. “There’s no way you’d catch me. I could sell the Spider-Man suit and buy a one-way ticket to the mountains of Peru.”

_I’d find you,_ Tony thought instantly. But outwardly, he hesitated, precariously attempting to balance his parenting skills, his experiences comforting his friends, and the rock hard erection straining against his designer jeans. Then he slid into a crouch, putting himself just above level to the boy sat against the wall, and murmured gently, “You could. But you promised.” 

Peter snorted into his knees, and Tony quirked a half smile at the top of his head. But he didn’t answer, so Tony paused briefly before continuing, “You picked the worst possible suit, kid. I’m assuming you uploaded something, didn't you? Over StarkTooth.”

The kid turned his head to the side, one brilliant green eye meeting his through the fringe of his bangs. “I thought StarkTooth was a rumor?”

Tony shrugged easily. “Sure it is.”

Peter hid his face again. “I just used a thumb drive.”

“What, really? That’s pretty old school,” he joked, but the kid didn’t laugh and Tony didn’t know what else to say. “Do you want to go upstairs to talk about it?”

“Do we _have_ to talk about it?” Peter whined, petulant. Tony recognized the tone well enough to guess that the kid would give in after this last plea, but that he was going to be upset about it. So Tony just nodded, hand twitching as he thought about stroking the poor kid’s hair. 

“‘Fraid so, kid. You’ve been acting... odd. Irritable. For a while now. I have a hunch that this is related. What do you think?”

“I am not _irritable_ ,” Peter snapped instantly, peeking at Tony once more to glare with a single vibrantly green eye. Tony hummed, raising an eyebrow at Peter as he waited for his protégé to realized that yes, indeed, he _was_ being irritable, which he eventually did, coloring splotchily in the cheeks as he buried his head back into his knees and tightened his arms around his thighs. “Sorry,” he mumbled a moment later. 

On impulse, Tony reached out at last and clasped the bit of Peter’s ankle that was exposed between the cute Iron Man socks the man had gifted him for his second to last birthday (they had come from an online store targeted towards preteen girls and the gold parts of the repeating mask pattern were woven with sparkly thread, just so precious, Tony still loved them every time he saw them) and the bottom cuff of his too-short pajama pants (some faded relic of Peter’s childhood that had once been adorned with a grinning Pokémon on the thigh but which now just barely held on to flaking scraps of yellow and red printing). He regretted touching the kid until he saw the tense shoulders slump in acquiescence. “Upstairs, kid?” he pressed gently. “I’ll even make you a drink if you want. You’ve been running pretty high-strung here lately, maybe it’ll do you some good.”

Peter nodded slowly against his knees, and Tony stood up from his crouch, offering a hand up. The kid didn’t take it—Tony was almost positive the boy was so focused on standing up, not making eye contact, and discretely adjusting the bulge in his pajama bottoms that he didn’t notice it, so he shoved down the shadow of arrogant offense and merely put his hands in his pockets, waiting for the boy to seem like he was ready to face the conversation that Tony was increasingly unsure of why he was insisting they have.


	2. And there is pansies

Peter let Mr. Stark lead the way out of the lab, shuffling behind him with his fists shoved into his pockets as he stared at the back of the man’s head. _Fuck_ , but he’d looked so good in glasses. It wasn’t at all fair. His stomach was churning with anxiety and shame, his face burning with how much he felt like a stupid kid being sent to the principal’s office. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course he was going to get caught; Mr. Stark knew _everything_. And now he’d know about Peter’s weird frustration, his fixation on control and lack thereof. He’d know Peter was a freak.

As the man summoned the elevator, Peter considered again the possibility of fleeing. Could he even get out of Stark Tower without Mr. Stark’s permission? Everything had lockdown protocols. Maybe the vents?

“You coming, kid?”

Peter jerked his head up, mildly surprised to see Mr. Stark standing in the open elevator, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression relaxed and calm. He looked exactly as put together as Peter wasn’t; oddly, instead of finding that reassuring as he normally did, it pissed him off. He broke eye contact and shrugged, stepping onto the elevator and crowding himself as far away as possible from his mentor. 

To his surprise, a large, warm hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him into a brief one-armed hug. “I’m not upset, Underoos,” the man assured him as he released Peter from the embrace. The surprise of hearing the nickname for the first time in a year or more dazed him; he could think of no response, so he merely stood at the man’s shoulder, tense and uncomfortable, until the doors opened a moment later, revealing Mr. Stark’s living room. 

When he didn’t move, Mr. Stark about-faced in the doorway, sighed, and grabbed Peter by the elbow, leading him into the room and over to the loveseat. “Sit,” the man ordered; Peter obeyed, sinking into the seat and pushing himself into the corner of the couch, unable to look up at his mentor as his eyes began to sting. 

He jumped as a weight settled over his shoulders, but it was only a throw blanket Mr. Stark had taken off the back of the armchair. “Cuddle up, kid,” the man told him kindly, patting him on the head. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

Peter needed the moment alone, the protection of the blanket—if nothing else, it was a better way to hide his erection than just his flimsy pajama bottoms. He curled his legs under himself as he wrapped the fabric around his body, leaning into the side of the couch, and just tried to breathe normally. It wasn’t working. His lungs just felt—compressed. Like he were wearing a corset, or high on a mountain where the air was thin. And god _damn_ it, his dick wasn’t getting the message that shit had Gotten Real. “You fucked up _bad_ , Parker,” he growled under his breath. “Idiot.”

“Don’t call me names,” came Mr. Stark’s voice just behind him, cheerful and teasing. He offered Peter a mug, which he accepted delicately as it was over-full.

“Hot cocoa?” he asked quietly as the rich chocolate smell reached his nose. 

“And bourbon,” Mr. Stark supplied cheekily as he settled in on the other side of the couch. _Too close_ , Peter thought, seeing the man visibly realize the same, hearing his heartbeat pick up as it always did when they were close together. It had been a bit fast the entire time, but now Peter could hear the older man’s heart practically thudding in his chest.

He tried to tune it out, instead focusing on the pleasant, woodsmoke smell and taste of the bourbon under the thick, heady chocolate. It warmed his throat and stomach, burned just enough from both the heat and the alcohol to distract him. “It’s good,” he told the older man when he noticed he was being watched. 

“I’m glad. Have a few more sips. Talk when you’re ready.” 

“About what?”

“Why you’ve been acting so strange lately. Why you decided to try to reprogram my suit. What you hoped to gain from this... escapade.” The man’s eyes still radiated calm, as placid and still as an undisturbed pool of water. 

Peter took another sip. Then he gulped some of it down, shutting his eyes against the warmth and the anxiety and curling up tighter around the mug he clutched with both hands. He choked just a little, coughing and clearing his throat, then did it again. _Start talking on three, Parker_ , he told himself, a trick his uncle has taught him to start doing something he was scared of. _Three, two—_

“I don’t feel in control,” Peter said slowly. But the moment the words left his lips, they weren’t quite right, and a flood of his thoughts rushed out of him all at once. “No, that’s not it, I don’t feel _under_ control, I don’t feel like I have myself under control, I-I just don’t want to make any decisions, I’m angry all the time because I don’t trust, like, anything I do, because what if I’m wrong, or what if I question myself when I’m right? It’s—just, it’s so much pressure to be the strongest living thing in New York City, Mr. Stark. I could hurt someone! I could hurt _anyone_!”

By the end of his outburst, he was nearly panting, his breath coming in short gasps. But when he managed to look over at Mr. Stark, the man seemed completely unphased, with no change to his calm expression or posture at all. “But you won’t, kid. That’s the important part.”

“I’m _dangerous_ ,” Peter cried out, angry that the man wasn’t taking him seriously, angry that he snorted at the descriptor. His lips parted to continue onto another tirade, but Mr. Stark interrupted him.

“Yeah, kid, you have _powers,_ but that doesn’t make you dangerous. You save people, so don’t you think—”

“ _No,_ ” Peter insisted, hearing but being unable to control his angry tone. “No, Mr. Stark, you aren’t _getting it_. I could do _anything. Anything_. To _anyone_ , and no one could stop me.”

There was no expression change on Mr. Stark’s placid, calm-down-kid face, so Peter found himself clunking the mostly empty mug on the coffee table and raising onto his knees over the man, the blanket falling off of him. His rage made his breath ragged as he stared directly at the man’s downcast eyes. “I could do _anything_ to you, Mr. Stark. I could hurt you! You couldn’t stop me!” The handsome face still didn’t reveal the flicker of fear Peter was aching for, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and his rage spiked. Suddenly his hands were no longer clenched in the fabric of his pajama pants; they were on Mr. Stark, one hand pinning him by the shoulder against the couch and the other pressed against the man’s neck. 

Like through water, Peter watched the man’s calloused hand raise slowly to wrap around Peter’s wrist, but he made no attempt to remove the fingers from his throat. Peter realized he was nearly in Mr. Stark’s lap at the same moment the man locked eyes with him. His eyes were dark, dark, deep, consuming, and ablaze, finally expressing something, _anything_ other than placid concern. 

Anger. 

_Good._

...

Tony locked eyes with the kid, feeling his façade crumbling around him from a crack originating at the place that Peter’s fingers dug into the side of his neck. “You can’t _control me_ ,” the boy hissed, leaning in closer, his slender shoulders trembling with emotion. “ _Why aren’t you scared?_ ”

That was the moment it finally made sense for Tony. His sweet, sweet Peter, furious, practically in his lap, _threatening him_ , with his hand on Tony’s neck, his eyes blazing with deep green rage, like the shadows of some ancient and wild forest _._ Everything clicked into place at once. The rebellion, the moodiness, the irritability. It wasn’t a teenager hormone clusterfuck—it was just a need to be controlled. Tony could work with that. That sounded like more fun than mentoring.

“Peter.”

“ _Shut up_ , shut up! What if I turned evil? What if I got tired of you monitoring me, holding the suit over my head, trying to—”

“ _Peter._ ”

Tony had his attention now. He fell silent over Tony, his fingers spasming against the man’s pulse, his lips trembling with the force of how badly he wanted to keep yelling. But he obeyed. That was good.

“Two things,” Tony whispered, his grip tightening around Peter’s frail wrist. “One, _I fucking own you_. I bought you. I _made_ you. And _I control you._ Two.” Peter was completely still, his face twisted in rage, his eyes squinted shut as he shook his head, silently denying Tony’s words. But he was already melting, settling his weight onto Tony’s knees. “Two, kid, _you like that._ This is your choice. I don’t _make_ you do what I say. You _want_ it. Do you understand me, sweetheart?”

Peter folded, and it was gorgeous. So much better than being a responsible adult. In an instant he went from Spider-Man, _utterly_ capable of literally tearing Tony in half, to his sweet Peter, collapsing onto his chest, small and delicate with his fists clenched in Tony’s shirt. Without his permission, one hand came up to cradle the back of the kid’s head and the other curled around his waist, pulling him in tight. He whimpered, and Tony leaned down to whisper a simple command into his ear. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” was the instant, choked, honest response, the response that made Tony feel just as small and melted as the boy in his lap looked. Peter inhaled sharply through his nose, though, and continued a little steadier, “I need someone else to be in control.”

Shoving his emotions down—always, always—Tony buried his nose in the boys hair, smirking, and murmured back, “Is this a sex thing, kid?”

Peter snorted. “Mr. Stark, this is _really obviously_ a sex thing,” he joked back, but then he pressed closer, his voice lowering. “I mean, I think it is,” he admitted, his breath warm even through the fine fabric of Tony’s shirt. “Sometimes I’m not sure. It doesn’t—it doesn’t have to be, if that isn’t okay.” Tony parted his lips to speak, to assure him, but Peter interrupted him. “I know you like me back, Mr. Stark. I-I can hear your heart skip and speed up when you see me.”

Tony held him tighter, feeling a bit laid bare by this omission. “Can you?” he murmured, tone indulgent, betraying none of the intense and swirling emotions in his chest. “Then you know I already want to give you everything you could ever ask me for.”

The body in his arms shivered. “Y-Yes, sir,” he stuttered, sounding as though he were testing the words out. Tony was ready to let him.

“Good boy,” he praised, letting his voice come out deep and sultry, full of promises he intended to keep. Peter shivered all over and Tony reveled in it, in the power of it, the sweetness. Then he pulled back, forcing his tone back to normal as he continued as though conducting a meeting, “No safewords, alright, kid? We’re going easy. If you say no, stop, wait... anything, I’ll stop. Understand?”

Peter moved, shifting upward, and pressed his lips to Tony’s pulse, making him shudder as the sensation zinged through his spine. “Yes, sir,” he repeated, a little more sure this time, the words tingling across Tony’s neck, breaking him down. “Please, Mr. Stark, tell me what to do.”

The kid’s mouth tasted like bourbon and chocolate, sin and innocence, taking and giving. Everything he’d ever thought it could be, dialed up so high it gave him vertigo. “Are you sure?” Tony forced himself to ask when they parted, their lips still brushing. _Last chance, kid,_ he thought fiercely as he leaned their foreheads together, feeling himself getting lost in the deep green of his sweetheart’s hooded gaze. _Please._

But Peter’s fingers were working their way into his hair and his expression was open and needy, bleeding trust and love and want. He leaned in again, and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss Tony could ever remember receiving against his lips. Shy, sweet, his mouth small and soft and warm; it was over as soon as it began, and Tony was left reeling, feeling as though he’d just been shoved backward over the precipice of his love for the remarkable young man in his lap.

“Please,” Peter pleaded. “I’m sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

Tony was standing before he knew where he was going, his arms full of Peter. The body pressed against his own was warm and angular; the legs that wrapped around his waist somehow even more powerful than the arms that wrapped around his neck. The kid kissed him so eagerly, rhythmless and passionate and young; when Tony pressed him closer, he could feel Peter’s erection against his stomach and the kid gasped, breaking their kiss as his head tilted back. No sooner was the smooth column of his neck exposed than Tony had his teeth in it, scraping in a way that made Peter keen and squirm, gripping tighter until he could feel his bones protesting the kid’s super-powered grip. 

Tony’s brain was slow with arousal; he struggled to think past the images his mind showed him of Peter bent over the arm of the couch, or laid out on the bar behind them, fucked open and begging. _This isn’t about you,_ he reminded himself; the voice sounded eerily similar to Friday’s. Peter was grinding his hips into Tony’s stomach, mewling and squirming, pressing his neck into Tony’s mouth. _Think, think,_ he reminded himself as a mantra even as one of his hands dragged his nails up the back of the kid’s neck, fisting carefully in his curly hair, and pulled him back just enough to kiss him again, deep and demanding enough to hopefully distract Peter from the fact that Tony was paralyzed with indecision.

The kid broke the kiss, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder and moaning helplessly into the cloth their before biting down hard on his shoulder through his shirt. Tony cast his gaze around the room, fumbling for ideas that were appropriate for the young man who’d shyly admitted to the team a few months before that he’d been “too busy” to think too much about sex or dating or girls or boys. Finally his eyes found the bar. He paused, an idea blooming fully-formed in his mind’s eye, and before he’d thought it through he was across the room and depositing the flushed, panting boy onto its surface.

“Strip.” Tony watched the low command wash over Peter like a wave, watched his beautiful green eyes squeeze shut, his cheeks flush ever more, his fists clench helplessly in the material of his pajama pants, his back straighten like a rod; then, he nodded, eyes slitting open and focusing somewhere near Tony’s tightened jaw, strangling out _yes sir_ like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it. 

He had sort of expected Peter to be shy about stripping, or perhaps try to be coy and seductive. But no, Peter was always full of surprises. His shirt was whipped off and on the ground almost before Tony realized he was going to see the kid naked; then he was leaning back, supporting himself on one hand to raise his hips off the counter and shove his boxers and pajama pants down in one movement. They slid down the kids legs and fell in a heap on Tony’s feet, but he barely noticed, entranced as he was by the kid’s heaving chest, just as muscular and lithe as his powerful thighs, and by the kid’s cock, swollen and leaking where it jutted out from his hips. 

Peter’s eyes were on Tony’s, though, and after a moment of silence in which merely stood in Peter’s space, examining him, memorizing him, admiring his beauty, he followed Tony’s gaze down to his own body, considering it, and asked uncertainly, “... Am I... not up to standards?”

“Pretty sure you _are_ the standard,” was Tony’s instant reply. Once a few of his brain cells pooled their resources enough for him to have a thought, though, he continued quickly, “You might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Peter flushed all the way down his chest, pleasure and surprise making his expression so open and vulnerable that Tony could have cried. _Coming in a little hot,_ he chided himself too late, but instead of lingering on what he’d said, he stepped between Peter’s knees and pulled the kid down into a searing kiss. They parted, and as Tony kissed up the side of the kid’s cheek to his temple, reverent, Peter stuttered out a little, “Wh-what do I do n-now, Mr. Stark?”

Taking his time, Tony kissed over to the kid’s ear, pleased to be able to hide the way he was sure how he’d felt about being called Mr. Stark was written all over his face. He let his teeth graze the delicate shell of it, felt the kid shiver under him, and let his voice come out dark and demanding as he answered, “You’re going to kneel there on the counter, and put your hands behind your head. Then I’m going to suck your cock so well you won’t be able to think or speak. And if you move your hips or take your hands off of your head, I’m going to stop and make you beg me to keep going. Am I understood?”

...

Peter’s cock throbbed, the sensation echoing endlessly in all the empty parts of his heart, a _yearning_ settling in his bones so intensely that he could have cried with want, even with the thing he wanted so badly already being given to him. “Y-yes. Yes sir,” he managed, eyes roving Mr. Stark’s face, his burning eyes and his handsome jaw. “Please,” he added plaintively, completely against his own will, as he planted both palms on the counter and pushed up, tucking his legs underneath himself in the same movement.

As the marble bit into his bony knees, as his toes curled away from the cold surface, as he spread his legs and placed his hands behind his head, all the echoing parts of him were filled by the expressions that ran across Mr. Stark’s face. Impressed, like he always was at little shows of his acrobatics. Hungry, like he could devour Peter from the inside out and still never get his fill. And, best of all, always best of all, cocky arrogance, the exact same expression he wore when demonstrating to the team some new invention he’d created. The exact expression he’d worn when he’d introduced Peter as the newest Avenger. 

There were no more words. Mr. Stark acted like he owned the skin he settled his hands on at Peter’s hips, and swallowed his long-neglected cock down like it was the thousandth time and not the first. The sensation was like electrocution, all the intensity of being sucker-punched in the gut but with pleasure instead of pain. He cried out, curling over the man’s head, his hands fisting in his thick dark hair with no memory of how they got there, and then it was over and Peter was blinking dazedly down at the man’s amused little smirk, holding his head in his palms stupidly. 

Mr. Stark patted his hip, his dark eyes fixed on Peter’s own as he calmly wiped the back of his palm across his lips. “C’mon, Peter, bad boy. You know the rules.”

“I—I’m so sorry,” he panted back, mind blank, playing over and over the sensation he’d just experienced, picking up little details he’d been too overwhelmed to process at first with each replay; the press of the man’s elegant nose into his pubic bone, the scratch of his beard against Peter’s balls, the movement of the man’s hot tongue along the underside of his shaft, the way he’d licked up the slit as he’d pulled away. He straightened back up, replaced his hands behind his head, and braced himself, but Mr. Stark merely watched him, still hungry, still smirking, still as put together as you please. 

“Oh,” Peter realized out loud, feeling his ears burn. 

“Oh?” the man prompted, squeezing his hips encouragingly. 

Peter shut his eyes, feeling dizzy, and clenched his fingers in his own hair to ground himself as a voice he didn’t recognize wrenched itself from his throat, needy and small and open the way a watermelon is open after being smashed on the ground. “Please, please, please, Mr. Stark, p-please, I’m sorry, I’ll be g-good, I promise— _oh._ ” Peter cut himself off with a surprised little cry as the heat and pressure and suction returned as suddenly as they had left, only _just_ stopping himself from bucking his hips into it as the man paused expectantly with Peter’s cock in his throat.

He opened his eyes and chanced a look down, startled to find the man’s eyes on him, searching and prying, but Peter couldn’t look away from the place where his own body disappeared into the mouth of the man he wanted more than anything, the man he had always and would always want with every fiber of his being, every shred of his soul. “Jesus Christ,” he gasped, trembling with his desire to fuck into the tight heat and warmth which surrounded him. The man smirked around the base of his cock, his eyes joking _Not quite_ as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

Every muscle in his body tensed as Mr. Stark began to pull back, his tongue laving the underside of Peter’s erection until just the head remained buried in the endless suction. The hot muscle swirled around the tip in a way so skillful it made Peter choke, made him think _I’m hopelessly outclassed_ even through the thick fog of his pleasure. 

Then the whole movement was repeated, and Peter threw his head back as he put every ounce of himself into staying still.

Then it happened again. And again. And again. And again. 

Peter realized he was talking, then, realized he was sobbing out a litany of praise and worship so honest and broken that when he stopped himself mid-word and looked back down at his idol, still fully dressed down to his work boots despite Peter’s wanton nudity, the man was no longer looking at him and his cheeks and ears red. The man released the head of Peter’s erection with a a wet, filthy noise, and still didn’t make eye contact as he tried and failed for calm and collected and demanding when he murmured, “I didn’t say to stop.”

Then the man sucked him down again to the root, and the double blow of the pleasure and the neediness in Mr. Stark’s voice punched the words from his chest against his will. “ _Perfect_ ,” Peter cried out, “So _perfect_ , I can’t, I-I need, _fuck_ , Mr. Stark, I want it, I want you, I want you to own me, you always have, I—” He tuned himself back out by force, unable to moderate his words and his body at the same time, and when his thighs began to shake violently with the effort of holding still against the onslaught of pleasure and he vaguely heard himself beg for permission to cum, Mr. Stark’s calloused hands spasmed on his hips, dug in their nails, and began to pull Peter into each thrust, the impact of Peter’s cockhead on the back of his throat turning violent with the added force, and Peter came, the sensation white-hot and consuming, each pulse of his erection met by the constricting swallow of the man’s throat until, overwhelmed, he shoved himself away and collapsed backwards on the cold marble.

It took a moment for things to start coming back to him. The first thing he noticed beyond the aftershocks twitching through his body were the twin tear tracks chilling on his temples where they’d run into his hair as he laid panting on his back, trying to recover. The second thing he noticed was Mr. Stark letting go of his hips, his nails sticking a little where he’d dug in. Then the sound of a zipper and then the unmistakable sound of a man stroking himself. Peter exhaled, long and shaky, and listened as Mr. Stark stepped behind the counter. Over to the sink, maybe?

But then the man’s hand brushed against his sweaty forehead, and Peter opened his eyes just in time to see Mr. Stark bending down to kiss him, softly, sweetly, and Peter kissed back, raising trembling fingers up to cup his jaw and curl around his ear. After a long moment in which their lips moving against each other with more emotion than rhythm, the man’s body and lips stilled and Peter sucked on his lower lip as he moaned into his mouth.

This time it was Mr. Stark’s turn to recover, and Peter let him take his time, guiding the man’s head to his chest and holding him there as he panted. Eventually, though, through the fog Peter noticed the man shifting and let him go, having been unaware of how tightly he was holding on until he had to concentrate to release his joints.

“Fuck,” Mr. Stark groaned as he stood and stretched, snatching up a towel to clean his hand. The single syllable made Peter’s stomach drop; it was positively _dripping_ with regret. But before he could argue or cry or scream, the man sighed wistfully, “Should have done that months ago, huh, kid?”

Peter laughed, surprised, and made a humming noise of agreement, turning his head to rest his warm cheek on the cool countertop as he smiled stupidly at the man who smiled stupidly back at him. He held out his hand and Mr. Stark took it without hesitation or thought. Equally thoughtlessly, Peter found himself whispering, “Tell me I’m good?”

“So good,” Mr. Stark responded readily. “Does that not hurt your knees?”

“What?” Peter tilted his head up, distantly surprised to find that his feet were still tucked up under his thighs. “Oh, this? No, my joints are more of a suggestion than a rule. Look at this.” He held his arm out and limply demonstrated the way he could bend his elbow the wrong way by about twenty degrees. 

“Gross,” Mr. Stark complimented him, looking a little perturbed as he grabbed Peter by the wrist and busily bent his arm back to normal. “.... You’re amazing. You know that?”

This comment, stated as stone cold fact, threw Peter for a loop. “Nah,” he deflected, feeling shy, sitting up slowly and avoiding eye contact. “Just, you know, radioactive.”

Mr. Stark moved into his space again, humming, and held out his arms. Dreamlike, boneless, Peter let himself slump into the man’s broad chest, let himself breath in the cologne and the motor oil and the sweat. He felt the man’s nose bury in his hair, and if not for his enhanced hearing he might have missed the man’s answer and the restrained emotions within it. “That’s not what I meant, Pete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww. Yay. Just a sweet little story. :)


End file.
